Lady C. I'm completely bewildered! The poor boy seemed terribly in earnest—
Sir J. So does the poor girl! I'd like to shake them both in a bag! Well, you'll have a week of it now.
Lady C. How to refuse him without—
Sir J. You'd better accept him—why not? You'll find, we'll both have to marry them. Then, some day perhaps, they'll elope together—and Mollentrave on Women will rub his hands and cry "There!"
Lady C. (very distressed) What am I to say to Everard? Oh, what?
Sir J. Be senile! Boil your milk!
Lady C. (indignantly) Sir Joseph! Is this your sympathy? (sit L.)
Sir J. (meekly and deprecatingly, rise and to L. C.) My dear friend, I've had seven days of Margaret. I thought my brain was fairly strong —but it's giving. I tell you I'm growing helpless—turning to pulp—
Lady C. But advise me—advise me!
Sir J. I can't. You know—it sounds absurd—I did have some hopes of marrying you myself—I did indeed. (away R.) Well, now Everard claims you—and I shall soon be led by Margaret to the altar, with Miss Treable propping me up on the other side. We can't do anything—that's how matters are!